We Will Remember Them
by giggling-at-the-crime-scene
Summary: AU John slips out of the flat to pay his respects to his grandfather. This was written with Remembrance Day in mind. Eventual minimal Johnlock and a little bit of language. Oneshot


As the grey expanse of sky above him blustered about in the wind, John Watson stood completely still next to the memorial, the breeze biting at every inch of bare skin. He was in full army uniform, beret and all but he had not, of course, left the flat in this attire. The deductions were something he didn't want at the moment. Sherlock was, however, in the grip of a case and would likely have not even noticed his disappearance, slipping into a trance.

If there was anything John could have done to slip into a trance too, he would've done. His face was ashen with dismay as he looked down at the day-old weather worn poppy wreaths. He had not attended the service the day before for he couldn't stand the crowds, the bustling atmosphere that whilst sorrowful was hardly sympathetic. He needed privacy with his thoughts, not to be speculated on by the hundreds gathering to see the laying of the wreaths.

As he raised his arm wipe away a rogue tear he was sure he hadn't allowed out of his eye, the sleeve of the old uniform caught the end of his nose and he could almost smell the familiar musky scent of his childhood home and for a moment was overcome with nostalgia. It swept over him, knocking him off balance at the rarity of a regression to his former years. It was Christmas time and the year of his fifteenth-no, sixteenth birthday. His mother had asked for help carrying food through into the dining room and he walked to the kitchen with her, his nose was assaulted with the smell of turkey grease and brandy butter; an odd but memorable scent. He subconsciously smiled at the memory. She reached her hand out to him as he absently leant to pick up a recently roasted potato. Encased in her small pearlescent hands, sat a pocket watch. An old design and well-worn by the look of it. Taking the piece of precious clockwork in his hands, John ran his fingers over the cool surface of the watch's lid, taking care to note the chips at the sides. Finding the button and after a short affirming look up at his mother, he opened the watch. Inside was an antique clock face that was quite magnificent although this was not the most beautiful thing about the watch. Inside the case, a small, tattered photograph had been convinced to stay in place. The woman in the photo was beautiful, her ringlets cascading over her shoulder as she looked at the camera, a small smile gracing her lips. She looked remarkably young and the corner of the photo itself was a small smattering with what looked like mud and blood.

"She was beautiful wasn't she?" His mother's voice was quiet and somewhat torn.

"She was," John said, looking up at his mother who was on the brink of tears.

"Who was she?" He asked as the silence began to grow. For a moment her eyes were grief stricken but then the normal twinkle returned.

"She was my mother." She said calmly, taking the watch back from John and closing it. "This was my father's watch. It is all I have of him and I'm giving it to you. He had it with him through the war and a mere month before the end, he was shot by a German solider. They said he held this watch with him the whole time he was in hospital but he died shortly after and never saw his wife again but for this picture." Handing the watch back to her son, John's mother turned away, "it is yours now. Please look after it. Now, help me carry out this turkey!"

Rain was starting to fall as John emerged from his memory, face speckled with tears and raindrops. The wind began to whip up the leaves around him and the auburn blaze of fallen leaves flew close to his face, disorientating him. His hand reached down to his pocket and he felt the familiar weight of the watch there. The breeze left as fleetingly as it came and John pulled out the old clockwork. The watch itself had changed very little from that Christmas except for a new dent that adorned the front casing. According to his watch, it was seven minutes past six which meant he had been out of the flat for just over two hours.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice your absence?" An all-knowing voice came from behind him and he knew with out looking who it was.

"How did you find me?"

"I followed you," Sherlock said simply.

"Right...well, next time I would appreciate it if you didn't." John said, irritated that his plans to be alone had been ruined. "I just need some time to think." John stated, his hand going to his pocket once again, running his fingers over the new dent in its surface. He didn't want to think about how it got there but he couldn't help it. His mother had wanted him to look after Itami he'd gone and bloody dented it. Well, he hadn't dented it himself per say but if he hadn't taken it with him to Afghanistan. 'You would also likely be dead' he thought. It had been in his breast pocket when he was shot at by the Taliban. The particular man shooting at him fired two shots and it was only by a small coincidence that the watch was there. Without it, John would have been shot in the chest as well as the shoulder. 'I took it into another bloody war' John berated himself.

"Took what into another bloody war? I assume it's whatever is in your pocket and given that most people engage with sentiment,"

"Can you just not?" John pleaded, "can you please, just for once, not deduce anything?"

"So it is your grandfather's pocket watch then." Sherlock said, somewhat to himself. "I've been puzzling it out for a while now. I wasn't sure if this was about the watch or that crocheted jumper of yours!" Sherlock sounded like he was trying to be sympathetic but John couldn't tell, he was already walking away from the memorial and Sherlock. He was cold and tired and wasn't sure if he was crying or not and not knowing that upset him more so he marched off in the vague direction of a tube station, not caring to get changed.

John searching for a crowd to disappear into but luck wasn't on his side. The torrential downpour had convinced anyone with any sense to stay inside and given that it was now nearly seven o'clock, there wouldn't likely be many people wandering about near a war memorial. He charged along the streets, the rain draining away his warmth as well as his anger. By the time he had reached the entrance to the tube station, there was water sloshing about in his boots and his uniform was drenched. His hair was slick against his head and dripping cold droplets down his back. Before he knew what was happening, two very wet arms wrapped around him and he was pulled into a crushing hug. Initially, John was startled and struggled against Sherlock but he soon melted into the hug, crying and hugging Sherlock tighter.

"It would appear that I do the sentiment thing too..." John heard Sherlock say, the deep sound resonating in his chest, "how about a cup of tea?"


End file.
